The Grey Court
by SpartAl412
Summary: A knight of Bretonnia embarks on a quest towards the Border Princes and to the edges of the Badlands, in search of a missing brother. But in a land filled with cutthroats, greenskins and other dangers, a man would need a guide if he wants to get in and out alive. For a job like that, one needs to hire the right kind of man for the job, even if that guide is no man at all.
1. Chapter 1

_**Les Principautés Frontalières BC: 1532 (IC: 2510)**_

An oppressive heat bathed the arid lands of the Border Princes, the tall yellow grass offered little in the way of shade, unless one was counted among the small folk of either dwarfs or halflings. Clouds of dust were kicked up by the marching warband, the stench of animal dung was mixed with that of stale sweat from the human riders, creating a noxious stench which each man had to bear. Composed of more than six dozen mounted mercenaries, they all kept a watchful eye over the horizon for the lands which they travelled through were home to many greenskins.

Among the mercenary warband, Alexandre du Vallon kept a perfumed handkerchief over his nose and mouth, the smell of it had mostly faded and it was more for preventing him from inhaling the clouds of dirt. Immediately, he found himself hating this wretched land and he could understand why the civilized nations of the Old World would exile their undesirables to this place. What he did not understand though was why some people would willingly choose to live in the Border Princes for between the harshness of the land itself, the countless monsters which infested it and the never ending squabbles of petty principalities which fought amongst each other for territory, the lot of a peasant back home seemed far more preferable.

Unlike many men of his privileged status, Alexandre did not go about wearing a suit of plate armor or even chainmail; instead, he opted for a light and rather fashionable doublet of fine dark brown leather worn over a cream colored blouse and a woolen cape dyed black edged with white. A feathered wide brimmed hat of Estalian fashion was worn over his brow, shading his eyes from the intense glare of the sun. He was very much far removed from the typical image of a Bretonnian knightly noble and instead, he looked more like a Diestro of Estalia for indeed he greatly prided himself as of being a professional duelist and was appropriately equipped with a rapier and main gauche of good craftsmanship.

Having been born and raised in the cultured Dukedom of Brionne and its capital which was merely short boat ride away from Estalia itself, he had spent much his recent Errantry Years in Bretonnia's southwestern neighbor. When he had returned home, Alexandre had been a changed man for he had as some might say "gone native" over there in the sunny realms. Yet in his time away, so much had also happened to his House, changes which now led him to his current situation.

Born the third son of his family, his eldest brother, Landuin, had partaken on a Crusade against the greenskins descending from the Iranna Mountains and had been slain in honorable combat. By Aristocratic Law of Succession, the second son would take the place of the first, which normally would not be a problem but in the case of Alexandre's middle brother, Gaspar, the man had last been heard in the service of one "Duke" Waltier Belmont who rule over a fief in the Border Princes. Alexandre did not begrudge his remaining brother for he personally was glad to be a "spare" for rulership of his House held little interest to him; rather, he preferred the more carefree lifestyle of a Cavalier Errant.

After attending the Morrian funerary service held for eldest brother, it was his mother who had bid him to find Gaspar. And so he had left Brionne once more where he traveled towards Carcassone and from there he took the Montdidier Pass into the Border Princes where along the way, he had joined the company of a band of Tilean Condottiere. The Dogs of War mercenaries allowed him to travel with them for they knew well that in a land as dangerous as the Border Princes, every extra sword was a precious addition to a warband.

All Alexandre knew at the moment of Gaspar's current liege was that the Duke's fief was situated somewhere near the the borders with the Badlands, along the shores of the famous Blood River. Since he had at the least a general sense of where he must go, Alexandre was willing to put the rest of his journey in the hands of luck and to the gods themselves.

* * *

Holding up a dwarfish crossbow of _wutroth_ and best craftsmanship quality up to eye level, Hilda Bardinsdottir had a clear shot which she took without hesitation. Pressing on the trigger of her weapon, she launched a steel-tipped bolt which flew straight and true towards the neck of her target, an Orc Boar Rider. The hideous greenskin fell off of its mount and its companions looked to their compatriot with amusement which soon then turned to surprise as their slow minds figured out that their comrade was actually dead.

Concealed by tall grass and covered by a cloak which did well to hide her presence, Hilda methodically reloaded the weapon and before long, she had another bolt ready for the orcs. She then launched another shot which struck a boar in the side of its thick skull and creature began to wildly thrash about before hurling its rider off. The remaining Orc rider looked around the plains and the beast's red eyes became fixed on the dwarf's position.

'Ah _bugrit_ ' whispered Hilda as the orc raised a crude spear towards her and it kicked its porcine steed into a trot which immediately became a full gallop. Having enough time for one more shot, Hilda took careful aim with one eye closed and she focused her sight on the rider. Holding her breath to steady her aim, she fired another bolt which struck the greenskin's chest but orc rider still remained on its saddle.

Tossing aside her crossbow, the dwarf then reached for the handle of a heavy warhammer that was sheathed upon her back. Ancient runes flared to life as she drew the weapon which infused her limbs with arcane vigour. Holding her hammer in a readied, aggressive stance, she charged the oncoming orc boar rider with a loud dwarfish war cry upon her lips and she spun to the side, her weapon trailing after her.

Loosening her grip on her hammer just by a little, the dwarf allowed the weapon to slide between the palms of her gauntleted hands until she held on to the bottom of the shaft. The momentum of her swing was more than enough to cave in skull of the boar as the flat of the hammer struck between the eyes of the animal and it felt as if she had struck a gromril anvil. The Orc's spear nearly skewered her face, but the weapon's aim went wide as the impact upon the boar caused it to collapse and the greenskin rider was flung hard into the ground.

Not giving the orc time to recover, Hilda quickly went up to the fallen rider who looked like it had been concussed from the fall and she brought her hammer upon its head with an overhead swing. Green blood, bone and bits of brain matter exploded from the orc's skull as the hammer struck and a feeling of grim satisfaction came over the dwarf ranger.

'Just like what papa taught' she whispered to herself in amusement. A loud porcine squeal rang out from the direction of where the orcs had been and it was followed by a thunderous bellow of rage. Hefting her bloodied hammer in a readied stance again, she saw the lumbering and angry form of the last remaining orc rider, the greenskin's crude iron sword was freshly coated in the red blood of its former mount.

Just one more thought Hilda Bardinsdottir of Clan Helhein as her hands tightened around the grip of her hammer.

* * *

 _Later that day..._

The sight of the palisade walled town was a welcoming one to Alexandre and the mercenary company which he travelled with. The Dogs of War had held up a flag which supposedly meant that they were for hire and the inhabitants allowed them to enter through the wooden gates. Muddy streets, thatched houses of poor construction and the smell of either animal dung or human waste made it all feel more at home to the Bretonnian who likened the place to a common peasant village from back home.

Their first destination would of course be the local inn or tavern for the rank and file but for the captain of the warband, they would meet whoever it was that ran the settlement and apply for employment. For Alexandre though, he was eager to quench his parched throat with whatever was on tap. It did not take them long to find the town's drinking hole which looked significantly better built compared in comparison to the rest of the structures around it for the establishment sported stone walls three stories and a tiled roof.

When they entered the establishment which was simply called " _Il Duce'_ s" it proved to be more spacious than they had expected. Dimly lit by candles and possessing many vacant tables, the large group of mercenaries were eagerly welcomed by a rather portly Tilean man wearing the trappings of a common barman.

The warband then began to break up into smaller groups, each occupying separate tables and attended to by local serving girls of varying degrees of prettiness. As much as Alexandre would have liked to get to know some of the girls, his business was with the barman who would most likely know more than a few bits of rumors and gossip going on. When he arrived at the bar, he ordered for a jug of wine along with some cheese and bread.

'You are Bretonnian aren't you?' curiously asked the barman after taking Alexandre's order.

'I am, is there a problem?' responded Alexandre without any hostility in his voice.

'Nothing milord' apologetically said the barman. 'I just noticed the accent and all'.

'No harm done' nodded Alexandre. 'I am looking for any information about one of Princes of this land, a man by the name of Duke Belmont, do you know where I can find him?'

'D-duke Belmont!?' sputtered the barman with a fearful look on his face and Alexandre knew that was not a good sign. 'Myrmidia's tits, why would you go looking for such a man?'

'My business is my own' tersely replied the Bretonnian. 'It is not the Duke who I seek, but someone who serves him.'

'Then you should probably find a priest of Morr' said the barman.

'Why would you say that?' questioned Alexandre who began to have a terrible gut feeling.

'Well the way I've been hearing things' said the barman with thick meaty arms folded, his voice taking a more conspiratorial tone. 'Dark things are going on in the lands of Duke Belmont, some travellers say that he has thrown his lot in with cults of the Ruinous Powers.'

'The Duke is in leagues with Chaos!?' loudly spoke Alexandre and the mere mention of the Dark things of the north was more than enough to send a sense of dread into the hearts of those who heard it and many made the signs of different gods. Even in the lands as far south as Tilea and Estalia, the dread followers of Chaos were well known for along the coasts, it is not unknown for Norse Longships to sail and lay waste to entire settlements and although mutation was not as rampant in the north like the Empire or Kislev, it still did happen on occasion in the south.

'I don't know if that is true milord, it is just what I hear people saying' replied the barman with a shrug.

'I see, so why then would I need a priest of Morr?' asked Alexandre.

'Well, Duke Belmont's land is near the Badlands, along the Blood River' explained the barman. 'I have heard that there's been a lot of greenskins heading on over there, getting there jollies and whatnot from all the fighting.'

Was it possible that perhaps this Duke Belmont made has made a deal with daemons? To save his lands? thought Alexandre. It may have been a bit incredulous to think so, but it was a very popular topic among playwrights, artists and storytellers to create tragedies of those going to extreme lengths to save that which hold most dear. Although most are of course works of fiction, but there were some which contained a grain of truth in it.

' _Merci_ , thank you for your time' nodded Alexandre as he handed the barman a silver _deneirs_ in time and just in time for his order had arrived. A serving girl delivered a tray with a clay pitcher, a pewter goblet and a wooden platter holding a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese. The serving girl set it on the bar in front of Alexandre who discretely slipped her another _denier_ along with a lascivious wink.

'If you're planning on heading there milord, you would probably need to hire a guide who knows the land' suggested the barman.

'And I trust that you know someone trustworthy?' asked Alexandre who said it in a way which meant that there might be something a little extra for the barman if he knew of one.

'Well we do get a couple of rangers who pass by here from time to time' said the barman. 'There is one, a dwarf who regularly rents a room here.'

'A dwarf?' asked Alexandre with some surprise for in Bretonnia, subhumans were a rare sight, save for possibly the Fey of Athel Loren but of the dwarfs though, it was said that the mountain folk had settlements along the Grey Mountains. Alexandre had of course never seen a dwarf before and he imagined that one would look much like a human-born midget but one possessing burly physique and a great beard.

'Aye a dwarf' nodded the barman. 'Most princes around these parts offer a bounty on the heads of orcs, goblins, snotlings and even trolls. The way I hear it, she's a professional at killing them greenskins.'

'She?' questioned Alexandre who, like most Bretonnians, was uncomfortable with the idea of women doing what was a man's business. In his time within Estalia, he knew of their worship towards the war goddess Myrmidia whose faithful included an entire Order of female knights known as the Sisters of Fury. He had seen a few of these warrior women during Errantry but was wise enough to watch his tongue, especially considering that he was of course, a foreigner in a different land.

'Surprising, right?' shrugged the barman. 'And I thought that there were no dwarf women, that the mountain folk just sprung from holes in the ground.

'I see, and is this dwarf currently in town?' asked the Bretonnian who realized that he may not have much of a choice in the matter. The barman then looked to the entrance of the establishment and then he looked back towards Alexandre.

'Well you are just in luck' he then said 'she is right over there...'

* * *

Gently passing by the crowds of armed humans who now patronized the _Il Duce_ , Hilda easily made her way to the bar area. Her coin purse was slightly heavier now as the bounty on orc heads had proven to be quite profitable for the dwarf and she had a good idea on how to spend it. Finding an empty table at one corner of the establishment, she was then attended to by one of the human serving girls who of course did not bother with trying to butter up the _rinn_ for some extra tips.

Ordering a mug of ale, a bowl of stew and some bread, Hilda rested her weapons on the wall behind her and she made herself as comfortable as possible on the human-sized furnishings. Lighting up a pipe filled with Mootland tobacco, Hilda soon felt calmed as smoke filled her lungs. She could have done better, thought the dwarf for aside from the three orc riders she had earlier slain, she had also successfully taken down a hunting party of four _grobi_ about an hour before.

Not many greenskins wandering about these parts she thought, probably should pack up and head elsewhere, to "greener pastures" as some humans would put it. Karak Eight Peaks might be a good idea for there were lots of things which needed killing and King Belegar Ironhammer of the Clan Angrund paid well for anyone who could help reclaim the hold, not to mention that there were also those among her own clan that now served him. She also thought about heading towards Karak Azgal which like Eight Peaks, had active throngs which sought to reclaim the once famed City of Jewels which had also been infested with all manner of monstrous things.

Deciding to just sleep on it the dwarf then noticed the approach of one human man dressed in light leathers. Judging by the way the manling was garbed; he was probably one of those professional sword fighters with the flashy fighting styles were quite popular in the lands of Estalia and Tilea. This manling himself did not have the tanned skin which was common among the southern humans; rather, he had the fairer skin of someone from the Empire, Bretonnia or the Gospodar of Kislev.

'Excuse me but are you by chance _mademoiselle_ Bardinsdottir' politely asked the human whose voice had a distinct Bretonnian accent with it.

'Yes, that is me, and you are?' replied Hilda.

'Alexandre du Vallon of Brionne' greeted the manling with a flourish of his feathered hat as he gave an extravagant bow to the dwarf. 'I would like to hire your services madam, for I am in need of a guide who can take me to the lands of Duke Belmont.'

'Those lands are thick with greenskins' warned Hilda who was keenly aware of just how dangerous the Badlands could be, especially at this time of the year.

'So I have been told, but it is of utmost importance that I go there' said this Alexandre human as he then reached for a coin pouch tied to his belt and he gently planted it upon Hilda's table.

The intense longing of Goldlust came over the dwarf who stared at it and she slowly reached for the container. Undoing the cord which sealed the pouch, her eyes widened as she saw the gleam of _gorl_ , gold! Each coin featured a bust depicting Bretonnia's first king and it took all of her willpower to resist the urge to just snatch up the coin pouch and she gave the human a nod of acknowledgement.

'Will you do it then?' calmly asked the human.

'Do you know how to fight?' seriously asked Hilda.

'I know may not look it but I am, first and foremost a Knight of Bretonnia' proudly announced Alexandre. 'I have bested Iron Orcs from the mountains of the Iranna, slain beastmen in the forest of Chalons, I have fought off arab slavers and pirates along the coasts of Estalia. To answer your question, yes I know how to fight!'

Having studied the manling as he made his little boast, Hilda was confident that the human was indeed speaking true.

'I will take the job then' nodded the dwarf. 'We leave mid morrow, meet me at the gates...'

* * *

The next day...

When morning came, Alexandre ate a hearty breakfast of honeyed porridge and goat's milk after making sure that his horse had received its fill as well of fresh grain. He then headed towards the nearest market, purchased provisions which both he and his horse would need. At the appointed time, he found the dwarf woman was at the gates, along with a bizarre contraption which looked some heavy metallic pack which sported a trio of long metal blades and a pair of arms like that of a chair.

Dressed in heavy armor of lacquered plate and chain mail that was intricately etched with golden filigree, the dwarf wore her grey cloak over her shoulders and a winged helmet that rested atop her head. On the sides of the contraption, there were also a number of bags and other objects hanging around it such as a heavy looking warhammer and a crossbow. Around the belt of the dwarf woman, she also had a pair of those handheld blackpowder, pistols he believed they were called along with some metallic egg-shaped objects.

'It is called a Gyro Harness' explained Hilda as she knelt by the machine and she poured a small keg full of what smelled like very strong beer into a funnel attached to the device. 'We dwarfs sometimes use it when we need to travel about over long distances.'

'What does it do?' questioned Alexandre foe he had heard stories about the cleverness of the Mountain Folk and how they built great machines to aid them both in day to day life and on the field of battle.

'This' answered the dwarf as she pulled a cord attached to the strange machine and it began to sputter smoke and steam from a pipe at the bottom of it. The three blades began to slowly rotate before picking up speed and the dwarf carried it like a back pack. Faster and faster it went, the sight of it drew a mix of fearful and curious looks from the locals as wind was blown around them from the dwarf's machine. Much to the surprise of Alexandre and every other human observer, the dwarf's feet lifted off of the ground by a foot and she nodded towards Alexandre as her hands were tightly held on to arms of the machine.

'Try to keep up manling' slyly announced the dwarf as she then flew out the gates and moving as fast as a horse at full gallop. Kicking his steed, the Bretonnian was soon following after his guide.

For several hours they would travel across the dry plains of the Border Princes and when night fell, they had made camp in the weathered ruins of an old farmstead. Much of the place had been left in shambles, the thatch roof of the farmhouse had long collapsed and the only part of it which was not in complete shambles was a barnyard of rotted wood, a few missing planks and overgrown grass. Of its original inhabitants, they had found no trace, save for the sharpened stone heads of arrows which his guide quickly identified as of being goblin made.

Having had firsthand experience on knowing the cruel acts of which the cowardly little greenskins tended to perform on their victims, he decided it was best not to think on it and they both deposited their packs on one corner of the barn. In silence they had eaten a cold dinner of dried meats and hardtack around a campfire, Alexandre's horse was divested of its saddle and the loyal steed rested on its side near the warm flames. His guide had only spoken a few words since their journey had begun and she now stood outside of the barn, smoking a pipe and looking towards the southwest.

Alexandre was rather curious at what the small woman was thinking, partly because he had never met one of the mountain folk before, nor any member of the other civilized races for that matter. Rising up from his seated position, he slowly walked towards the opened entrance of the barn; his horse looked up to him in curiosity before resting its head on the hard ground. The dwarf woman then looked over her shoulder towards him and she gave a slight nod before returning to her watch.

'What is it that you are looking at?' asked Alexandre towards his guide.

'Ever hear of the Dragonback Mountains, manling?' replied the dwarf woman who still gazed towards the horizon.

'Can't say I have' answered Alexandre who looked to the distance and he saw nothing but more plains and darkness beneath the clear starlit sky.

'My clan used to live in a Hold there; gone now like many others' continued Hilda who offered him a puff of her pipe but Alexandre politely declined.

'I have heard many stories about the lost cities of the dwarfs' spoke the Bretonnian who remembered many a tale he had been told as a child and others he had picked up during his travels, of great wealth that would make all of the kingdoms of Men look like beggars in comparison. 'That they are places of wonder, filled with treasure and all manners of dangerous creatures.'

'They are also tombs' Hilda then said as she let out a stream of smoke from her lips, a hint of quiet anger could be heard in her voice. 'Many of the old holds are filled with the bones of our ancestors; some are even haunted by the spirits of those unable to enter the Ancestors Halls.'

'Like much of Mousillon' said Alexandre who gained a curious look from the dwarf and the Bretonnian told her of the cursed duchy, a place he once had the misfortune of ever setting foot upon. 'To the north of my homeland of Brionne, beyond Aquitane and Bordeleaux, the Dukedom of Mousillon is inhabited by the undead from hordes of skeletons and zombies that wander the swamps and there are many restless spirits which haunt it at night.'

'Sounds like a cheery place' sarcastically commented the dwarf. 'Is it as bad as Sylvania?'

'If you count peasants so deformed that they might as well be mutants of the Chaos Wastes or lords and ladies who may or not be vampires, I would say it is just as bad' replied Alexandre who had heard stories of the undead haunted lands up in the Empire and he remembered that one incident where he and a number of other Knight Errants had tried to clear out a graveyard filled with zombies, sufficed to say, it did not end well for many of them. 'Quite appropriately, people also call the capital city of Mousillon itself "The City of the Damned".'

'That seems about right' then said the dwarf with grim amusement. 'You should get some rest manling, we still have a long journey ahead.'

'What about you? asked Alexandre who was not very keen with the idea of allowing a woman to watch over him for the night. 'Shouldn't we take shifts in keeping an eye out for greenskins?'

'I will be fine manling' replied the dwarf more assertively. 'Just go to sleep and I will wake you when we need to leave.'

Nodding with resignation, the Bretonnian reluctantly obeyed the hired guide and he went back towards the campfire. Glancing back one last time, he saw that the dwarf was again looking towards the direction of this Dragonback Mountains. He heard that the dwarfs were also a people prone to looking ever towards the past, that their deeds and actions were always in the shadows of those who came before them.

A very morose folk by the sound of things he thought.

* * *

When dawn came the second day, they headed out once more, just as they had on the first. They traveled further down towards the south, nearing the Blood River where about nine decades ago, the Bretonnians had fought many wars against the greenskins. On the third night, they had made camp on the open plain and Alexandre proudly told Hilda of tales about Bretonnian knights slaughtering greenskins in these lands while the dwarf was busy pouring more beer into her flying machine.

'I was there when you Bretonnian came around these parts' said the dwarf woman. 'A lot of knights wanted to hire guides who knew these lands; well the smart ones did at least.'

'Really?' questioned Alexandre with much skepticism as he gave a studious look to the dwarf.

'We dwarfs live a lot longer than you manlings do' reminded Hilda.

'Were you by chance hired by an Earl Laurent du Vallon?' he curiously then asked.

'Never met him' shrugged Hilda. 'Some other rangers and I were employed by a Baron Florin d' Arteles, ever heard of him.'

'I do not think I have' admitted Alexandre with some embarrassment.

'Well there were a lot of you manlings coming about from all over your lands' said Hilda who didn't seem bothered. 'He was a manling of his word who didn't try to swindle us, so that was good of him at least.'

'And some were not?' asked Alexandre.

'I have heard' nonchalantly replied Hilda. 'Didn't happen to me or others I knew, but in lands like this, finding a trustworthy guide can be a gamble.'

'I see' quietly said the human whose voice was again skeptical. 'And I hope that my choice of hiring you was not a poor one?'

'Are you doubting the word of a _dawi_?' accused Hilda who suddenly had a serious look on her.

'I mean no disrespect _mademoiselle_ Bardisdottir' replied Alexandre with hands held up in a placating manner. 'I simply want to be sure that by hiring you, I have not made a grave mistake.'

'You best keep such opinions to yourself manling' growled Hilda. 'You paid me for a job and I will get it done but others may be more inclined to leave you to the grobi and their wolves.'

'I will be sure to remember that' said Alexandre and the dwarf nodded, the mood for chatting had been replaced with a grim silence.

* * *

Again they would travel southwards and the closer they came to the Blood River, the more traces of greenskin activity they had found. On the fourth day, a little before noon, they had both smelled and seen the disgusting dung effigies which the greenskins erected in honor of their barbarous gods, each was a marker denoting the borders of a tribe. Ever since entering these lands, Alexandre's horse had become more cautious and the Bretonnian knight himself kept both hands close to his weapons for in the distance, he had heard the faint howls of wolves.

'They will probably try to have a go at us during the night!' called Hilda over the sputtering of her flying machine and the whirring sound it made as the blades constantly rotated.

'Should we give chase? Take the fight to them?' suggested Alexandre.

'No, the damn _grobi_ will want that, we need to find a good spot to hole up and wait out till morning' replied Hilda.

'I don't see any of those about' commented Alexandre as he surveyed the flat plains around them and he saw only more grassland.

'Just keep moving!' shouted the dwarf woman and indeed they stayed on course.

By the time the sun began to set over the west, they were able to find a spot which may offer at least some defense against the greenskin wolf riders. A ruined watchtower lay upon a hill ahead of them; its stones were as weathered as that of the farmstead from a few days earlier. The doorway was large enough for him to herd his horse inside but of the door itself, it had been broken down with rotted wooden splinters all over the interior.

Dust, cobwebs and broken furniture lay all about inside of the ruined tower; the place truly looked like it had been abandoned for years. Getting his horse through was a simple enough for Alexandre who was soon followed by his dwarf guide, her own machine took a moment for its engine to stop sputtering and its rotating blades to come to a halt. Once they were all inside, they went about trying to barricade the front with whatever they could find and after searching the tower for a bit, all they had were some old bed posts, a few chairs and some other pieces of furniture, all of which were old and rotted.

'Do you think it will hold?' questioned Alexandre with some worry as he later guided his horse by pulling its reins up a wide, winding flight of stone stairs towards the upper levels of the tower with his guide behind them.

'Not for long' dryly replied the dwarf woman as she drew both of her pistols and it was immediately followed by the howls of wolves from outside which were accompanied by high pitched war cries of "Waaaghh!"

'Ready manling? Because here they come!' the dwarf then shouted.

Drawing his rapier and main gauche in readiness, Alexandre offered a quite whisper to the gods, to Lady for courage and strength, to Morr in case he died this night and most importantly of all, to Ranald for good fortune.


	2. Chapter 2

Taking a deep breath of the dry, musty air within the ruined tower, Alexandre kept his eyes upon the wide, spiraling stone staircase which led up to them, his arms raised in readied stance, rapier and main gauche pointed towards the steps. They stood upon a circular stone floor where his horse had been left to one side; there was another flight of stairs leading up to the top of the tower where drafts of air blew in. From below, he could hear the barking of the wolves and the jeering of the goblin riders as they tried to break down the meager defenses which they had set up.

His guide pointed her two pistols towards the same direction and as they waited, they heard the sounds of their makeshift barricades being torn down. Sweat began to bead upon Alexandre's brow, his muscles tensed as his heart began to beat like a drum before finally, a loud splintering of wood rang out from below. The goblin wolf riders broke through the doorway, the small greenskins hollered in maniacal glee as they entered the tower and the wolves soon had their scent. The beasts began bounding up the staircase which was wide enough to accommodate two wolves abreast to one another but clearly, the creatures were not used to ascending such inclines as some clumsily tripped upon the steps.

A sudden loud crack rang out from next to him as Hilda fired one of her pistols which sent out a tongue of fire and a puff of smoke. One wolf whine in agony as the shot struck its chest and then there was another crack which caused a goblin's head to explode in a shower of green blood and bone. The rest of the pack continued to ascend, heedless of the deaths of their comrades and he heard a clattering sound as his guide tossed aside her two weapons and she drew her crossbow.

Firing a third shot, Hilda sent a bolt into the throat of another goblin and like her pistols; she tossed them it and pulled out her heavy hammer. Sorcerous glyphs flared along the head of the great weapon and the Bretonnian also remembered the stories he had heard of the Mountain Folk's craft, of wondrous weapons and armor wrought by their smiths. Hoping that there would be truth in the stories, he readied himself as one of the wolf riders drew within sword reach.

The goblin which rode upon the wolf shrieked a high pitched warcry as its mount leapt forward and the small greenskin thrust a spear towards Alexandre's chest. Reacting in a swift, fluid motion, Alexandre used the longer reach of his rapier to swat away at the head of the spear and he simultaneous drove his main gauche into the slavering maw of the wolf, the tip of the blade punctured the roof of the animal's mouth. Tearing his dagger out from the mortally wounded animal, he followed up with a strong kick towards the chest of the goblin rider which sent the small greenskin off of its saddle down the flight of stairs and towards its other kin.

A riderless wolf lunged at Alexandre but was immediately intercepted by the ensorcelled hammer of Hilda which smashed into the side of the lupine's head and bursting it open like an overripe melon. More wolf riders ascended the staircase and both the Bretonnian and the dwarf stood their ground where the numbers of the greenskins could not fully be used against them. Another mounted goblin assailed them with spear and shield but it was stopped dead in its tracks as the dwarf's hammer came down upon the shaft of the pole weapon and splintering along with its mount's face.

Thrusting his rapier forward, he caught the goblin rider with the now dead mount upon its scrawny chest and he parried the sword of another while Hilda smashed the skull of another wolf. Employing every trick, every technique and every bit of skill he had learned from his time under the tutelage of Capitan Diego Reverte y Aguirre, he expertly parried and countered the clumsy attacks of the goblins and their wild mounts. Delivering a swift riposte which skewered a greenskin through the throat, he simultaneously caught the jaws of a wolf with his main gauche and the hammer of the dwarf came crashing down upon in the spine of the beast.

' _Khazukan Khazakit-ha!_ ' shouted Hilda as her hammer then found its way towards another greenskin and splattering its brains all over them.

In comparison to his guide, there was quite the difference between their fighting styles for where Alexandre was reliant upon surgical precision to deliver clean killing blows in single strikes; the dwarf wielded a brutal strength which outright obliterated their enemies in a very, very messy fashion. The dwarf's speed was also surprising, to say the least, especially when considering all the armor she was wearing along with the size of her hammer which he doubted that he himself could swing about without quickly tiring out. A curved sword was then swung towards Hilda who had just smashed open yet another wolf skull and before the rusted edge could hit the dwarf, Alexandre deftly caught it between the blade and guard of his main gauche and he parried it away.

By forcing the goblin wolf riders to ascend the staircase where they could not fully use the advantage of their speed, momentum and having some much needed cover from their arrows, both he and Hilda were able to hold their ground long enough before the natural cowardice of the goblins took effect. Once enough of the small greenskins were killed, the rest of those who had been so eager to spill the blood of both man and dwarf were put to flight. Seeing the goblins turn tail and run brought much relief to the Bretonnian who let out a long sigh.

'Well that was a good fight' commented the dwarf as she rested the shaft of her hammer over her right shoulder. Blood both green and red covered her heavy armor which also bore gleaming dwarfish runes. Alexandre himself looked no better of course for he could even feel the bits of bone and viscera which had landed on his face and even more so on his garments.

'I must say that you fight quite well mademoiselle Bardinsdottir' replied Alexandre as he wiped his bloody blades upon the fur cloak of a dead goblin. 'For a woman' he then added somewhat grudgingly.

'Hmph and you as well, for a human' grinned Hilda in turn as she went to retrieve her ranged weapons.

'So what now?' asked Alexandre who kept glancing towards the stairway to see if more wolf riders were coming.

'We hole up here for the night' answered the dwarf. 'If we are lucky, the goblins will either try attacking from the same angle again or have a go at us come the morrow.'

'And if we are not?' worriedly asked Alexandre.

'They bring the orcs' grimly replied Hilda.

* * *

The wind howled across the open plains of the Border Princes and with it came the stench of beasts and greenskins. From atop the tower, Hilda kept watch for anymore _grobi_ wolf riders. Like all dwarfs, she was capable of seeing quite well in the darkness but this innate nightvision was partially interfered with by the light of the white moon and the stars.

Squinting her eyes, she noted a faint pair of red orbs watching from among the tall grass and she quickly brought her crossbow up to the parapets which reached up to her neck. The stock of the weapon was placed upon the weathered stone and after a moment of mental calculations, she pressed the triggering mechanism which sent a steel bolt flying. A high pitched cry of pain was soon heard as a goblin was felled and the rest began firing arrows at her.

Hardly worried, the dwarf knew well that from her position, the arrows would hardly reach that high and even if they did, the fortifications would provide excellent cover. Calmly going through the motions of reloading her crossbow, Hilda recalled the lessons her father had once told her.

'Always go for the neck or the eye' he had once said. 'Goblins and Snotling will go down sure enough if you hit them anywhere but orc are tougher buggers. Of course when you really want them dead, use an axe or hammer.'

In another life, her father would have been a Hammerer, one of the sworn bodyguards to the Lords and Thanes of dwarf-kind, as were his ancestors before him when the halls of Ekrund had still been inhabited by _Dawi_. In those days, her family had served a long and respected line of nobles as stewards, banner bearers and protectors but when the green hordes had laid siege to the Dragonback Mountains, her ancestor fell in battle but his own wife and child survived to flee towards the later doomed Karak Eight Peaks. The liege lord of her family did not survive Ekrund's fall, his line suffered the same fate shortly after and since then, the dwarfs of her family had like so many of the Helhein Clan been left as Holdless vagabonds

For many of the Helhein dwarfs, they had sought their fortunes in the Mountains of Mourn, deep within the realm of the Ogre Kingdoms or the reclamation of Eight Peaks. But for some others of her clan there was grudge and recompense to be had from the hated greenskins a who now squatted in the Dragonback halls, a debt they now owed that could only be paid in blood. Setting her crossbow upon the parapets again where a few arrows clattered upon, she sighted down on another goblin wolf rider and she took the shot and was rewarded with another pained cry.

For Hilda Bardinsdottir, who was descended from one of the orphaned clans, there was only a life of battle beneath sun and sky, the life of a surface Ranger like many of her ancestors who came after the fall of their homeland. The prospect of a good marriage was not in her favor for the name of her clan was one tied to misfortune and she had little to offer in the way of a dowry. Despite these hardships, Hilda was still a dwarf and like all of her race, perseverance in the face of adversity was something which brought at least some pride to even the lowest of dwarfs.

The goblins still continued to assail her rather futilely, they hollered as their wolves barked and she wondered whether they would try to storm the tower again. If they did, then she would be ready for them, the manling who had hired her had proven to be an adequate fighter at least so their chances of survival were not as bad if she were alone. It would still be a long night she knew as she loaded her crossbow again and if the _grobi_ thought they could bring her down then she would so, surrounded by a mound of dead greenskins.

* * *

When dawn came, it brought with it both a sense of relief and weariness. Alexandre had barely been able to get any sleep last night, his eyes had continuously darted towards the stairway of the tower, he had constantly been expecting wolves or goblins to try and creep up and murder him in his sleep. His horse as well probably felt as bad as he did but he was thankful that the dwarf woman he had hired, had done an excellent job keeping the greenskins back.

Travelling abroad once more, he remained vigilant for any more signs of greenskins. As much as it had rankled at him to hide away in the tower, rather than openly face the goblins, the rational part of him knew that the moment he stepped out from doorway, he would get an arrow for his recklessness. During the early years of his Errantry, before travelling to Estalia, he had quested along with another young knight named Abelard d'Artois and the they along with other Knight Errants had learned fairly early on that there was a fine line between recklessness and valor in battle, the former tended to get people killed rather ignominiousl while the latter led to glory or at the least, an honorable death.

The dwarf's bizarre flying contraption continued to sputter as they went, the land became even more arid and the sightings of greenskins became more frequent. More and more totems of dung and even greenskin or the occasional human body parts were both seen and especially smelled by them. More than once, they had found large swathes of land trampled by the boots or bare feet of the savages, the ground littered with detritus as the air stank of stale sweat and faeces. Alexandre wondered what it was like during the last Errantry War, when his great grandfather had put countless greenskins to the sword.

Back in his family's estate in the duchy of Brionne, there was a hall full of stuffed Orcs put on display by artisan taxidermists, each was a trophy of the his House during the Errantry War. When he and his brothers had been children, they used to play Slay The Goblin around the trophy room with wooden swords. That hall had likely not seen much use since their father had died fighting norse raiders and Landuin without any sons of his own.

It occurred to Alexandre du Vallon that if Gaspar could not or would not leave the service of this Duke Belmont, then he would have to become the lord of his House. The idea of rulership scared him more than any greenskin, undead or minion of the Ruinous Powers. If he became a lord, he would probably have to spend the rest of his days dealing with the trivial and utterly boring mundanities of ruling a fief.

This private fear added a sense of urgency to his quest, he needed to find Gaspar and bring him home. And so they carried on, traveling from one greenskin territory to the next, they made a number of cold camps to avoid drawing attention and were lucky enough to avoid any particularly large warbands. It was early on the sixth day of their journey that they had found the infamous Blood River.

Despite the name, the waters were not either red or green but it was the color of muddy brown. They saw in the distance, the walls of a settlement and according to the dwarf, it was the realm of Duke Belmont. Alexandre did not see much in the way of farm houses outside the walls, but he did see tilled fields with growing crops.

It was a good sign he decided for in comparison to the ruins they had passed, it was a clear sign of human habitation for he had never heard of greenskins trying to farm. Indeed, he had even seen distant figures on those fields, none with a greenish tinge to their flesh.

'There it is manling, watch your step, the land around here can get thick with _grobi_ pretty quick' the dwarf woman then said.

'How so?' questioned Alexandre who looked about and saw no signs of orcs or goblins.

'Ever since you Bretonnians had built castles around these parts, the greenskins know that they can find something else other than their own kind to fight' replied Hilda as her boots touched the ground and her flying machines blades began to slow in its rotations. Nodding, Alexandre cast a nervous glance over his right shoulder and was grateful to see no pursuing greenskins. Giving the dwarf woman time to pack up her strange machine, it soon looked like an odd backpack of metal and wood, the contraption possessed some odd folding mechanism to it. As soon as she was done, they were off to the gates of the settlement.

The fields around the keep were full of typically filthy peasant-folk dressed in ragged clothing. Their crops looked puny, almost shrivelled and people themselves mirrored the vegetation for they were tan of skin and scrawny, almost malnourished. The walls which protected the Castle were scarred and pitted with damage, wooden boards were poorly placed in spots where the masonry had crumbled, it was a very miserable sight which uncomfortably reminded Alexandre of cursed Mousillon.

'You should be careful around this place' warned Hilda as she walked, her face turned upwards as Alexandre remained mounted. 'Towns like this can be wary of strangers'.

'I know what you mean' replied Alexandre with a nod for in Bretonnia, it was easy for the peasantry to mark out exactly who is of noble birth and would of course by law, treat their social betters with appropriate accord, lest they be punished most harshly. For the occasional peasant on the other hand who may have whatever reason to travel, they were given no such respect by their fellows and it was not unheard of for random strangers who wander into towns to suddenly find themselves charged with the crimes of adultery, theft, murder, witchcraft or unnatural acts with livestock.

Such an experience had happened to him as well in one of the more remote and isolated villages of Estalia and he was lucky to get away without a noose around his neck. It was not an event he particularly wished to recall but which made him a bit cautious as they approached the gates.

'I will show you where you can find lodging and from there we can finish this business' Hilda announced.

'I might be in need of your services again _mademoiselle_ Bardinsdottir' replied Alexandre. 'I do not know how long my business in this place will last but when I leave, I would prefer the company of a trustworthy guide such as yourself.'

The dwarf woman seemed to swell with pride at his words and Alexandre got the impression that dwarfs were perhaps a vain folk, easily appeased by praise.

'Well I suppose I can wait' says the dwarf in a very pleased manner. 'I will give you three days.'

'Plenty of time' nods Alexandre as he continues to ride towards the gate where he could now see a pair of men standing guard. Equipped with hauberks of leather and mail, the guards wore grey surcoats depicting the symbol of a red grail engraved with a coiled dragon instead of the Fleur de Lis and in their hands, they carried long hafted Tilean pikes.

One of the soldiers trudged forward and he shouted something at them which sounded like Riekspiel and Hilda then responded in the same tongue. Having very little knowledge about the language used by the people of the Empire, aside from simply how it sounds like, he was able to figure some of what they were saying for there were some words which were similar to Breton. Judging by the tone of the conversation, the guard had probably asked them to state their business.

After a moment of more spoken Riekspiel, Hilda looked to Alexandre and she said 'say your name and business for being here.'

Nodding, the Alexandre then looked to the guard and judging by his appearance, he was most likely not of Bretonnian descent.

'I am Alexandre of the House of Vallon, of Brionne and Bretonnia' announces the nobleman in a commanding and imperious tone. 'I have come seeking my brother, Gaspar du Vallon who is in service to the lord of this realm, Duke Belmont.'

The mere mention of Gaspar's name had suddenly instilled a look of fear in the guard's expression which gave rise to a feeling of unease in Alexandre.

'Y-ye a-are nob' came the ugly, stuttered response of the man at arms whose butchered command of the Bretonnian language greatly left something to be desired.

'I am and I demand to know where I can find Gaspar du Vallon' replied Alexandre who maintained his authoritative tone.

The guard nodded and called to his fellow at the gate who then shouted towards another from inside the Gatehouse. Another soldier armed with bow and arrow then came from the way leading into the Castle and he gave nervous salute to the second guard. Words which had an undertone of fear to it were briefly exchanged and the archer looked to Alexandre with a familiar subservience.

'Right this way milord' said the archer in a more proficient but still notably low-born form of Breton.

Alexandre dismounted and he took his steed's reins in his gloved his, he and his dwarfish guide then followed the guard into the city. The stench of civilization only brought some comfort to him as his palms began to itch and he immediately began to have a bad feeling about this place.

* * *

The last time Hilda Bardinsdottir had been to the realm of Duke Belmont, it was over two years ago and even then, she had only stayed rather briefly after claiming a bounty on a troublesome goblin chieftain. Like many human principalities, its people eked out a fairly harsh existence, especially in these lands thick with greenskins. The place itself was an absolute dump that smelled almost as bad as that of a Skaven warren.

Rotted garbage was piled up along the streets and the citizenry dumped buckets full of human waste out the windows. The heat of the sun further added to the fetid decay and it was times like this that Hilda was thankful that her people were highly resilient towards disease. Mange-ridden stray dogs, cats and rats scurried about on the muddy, trash-filled streets and she saw that many of the peasant folk had gaunt, pockmarked faces, likely scars left behind by some previous plague.

Human townsfolk gave her curious looks, probably because dwarfs were uncommon in these parts. Keeping one hand close to a holstered pistol, she was keenly aware that manling commoners tended to have a belief that all dwarfs were fabulously rich and thus a particularly attractive target for thieves and cutthroats. The human, Alexandre on the other hand was also being given looks but one with more suspicion bordering on hostility rather than curiosity.

The presence of the archer who wore the uniform of a town guard was enough to deter any would be thieves but Hilda was certain that without him, the footpads would not think twice about preparing some sort of ambush for the two. Aside from the looks given by the citizens, there was also something else which bothered Hilda. There was a strange tension in the atmosphere, a palpable sense of fear and anticipation, as if the people were waiting for something bad to happen.

Staying for a few days was perhaps a very poor choice for Hilda who now only had herself to blame after telling the manling that she would stick around. Keeping alert, she along with Alexandre continued to follow the human soldier through the filthy streets, passing by several dingy neighborhoods until finally they reached the gatehouse of a walled off section. Signs of superior dwarfish masonry could be seen upon the stones and it was really no surprise for many clans had rejoiced when the humans of Bretonnia had slaughtered the greenskins with some holds even helping with the construction of fortified settlments

But as usual with the human habitation, they would later build upon the grand works of those dwarf masons and replace it with their own, shoddy excuses of construction. As they came to the second wall, they were met by armed human guards wearing heavier armor of chainmail and breastplates, their faces were concealed behind bucket-like helmets which left the eyes exposed. Unlike the lightly armored guards at the outer gate, these ones wielded greatswords like those of the Empire's elite infantry regiments, the eyes beneath the visors regarded them coldly.

Like the other guards these men all wore grey liveries depicting a red grail engraved with a dragon. A most unusual symbol thought Hilda who recognized a number of heraldries from Bretonnia, the Empire and other human realms. She supposed that since people of different lands were often exiled into the Border Princes, it was possible, if rather unlikely, that the folk of mixed descent would create some sort of symbol to signify their unity.

'What business have you here in the Gallant's Court?' demanded one of the Greatsword armed guards in Breton.

'These two here have business with Lord du Vallon' replied the archer somewhat nervously. 'The man claims that he is the Lord du Vallon's brother.' The Greatsword guard who spoke then leaned his head a little forward and he studied the face of Alexandre for a moment before looking towards Hilda.

'And the dwarf' asked the Greatsword guard again.

'My guide through the lands' interjected Alexandre with an impatient tone.

The Greatsword Guard who had spoken then looked to the archer and then he nodded to which the bowman saluted and he gave a bow to Hilda and Alexandre before going back the way they came.

'I shall escort you to Lord du Vallon's estate' announced the Greatsword Guard who then turned towards the opened gateway. 'We will have your steed taken care of'

'You go ahead manling' Hilda then says and Bretonnian looks to her. 'You can find me at an inn called the Bloody Mare, if not there then look to other drinking holes.'

'I will find you' replies Alexandre who extends his left hand towards her.

Reaching up with her right, Hilda firmly grasped below the wrist of the human and she shook the proffered limb as a man at arms summoned by the guards attended to his horse. Alexandre gave her a respectful nod before departing with the armed guards. Whatever purpose Alexandre had for coming here, that was his business she decided.

For Hilda on the other hand, she was keen on finding whatever drink she could in this town, but she doubted that there would be anything good.

* * *

Carefully looking around the place which the guard had called the Gallant's Court, Alexandre had to admit that he was certainly quite impressed. The buildings in the district were made from stone and timber rather than mud and thatch and he could see that the structures had better withstood the test of time. The people in the district were also of a better quality for he could see many who were clearly of noble birth and even their commoner-born servants were significantly better fed and dressed than the rabble in the previous district.

If it weren't for the heat, Alexandre would have felt like he was he was back in Bretonnia. It amazed him to think that even after nearly a century since the Errantry War of King Charlene, the descendants of the knights who had remained in the Border Princes had been able to perfectly preserve the architecture, fashions styles of their homeland.

The heavily armed and armored guards though were probably of a foreign influence like the Empire or Tilea for back in Bretonnia, no peasant would be allowed to wear plate armor and wield something like a greatsword. On that note, the guard who escorted him had remained silent as his armor clattered and jingled along the way, his gauntleted hands tightly held his great weapon as the flat of it rested on the man's right shoulder. He noticed that the man regularly glanced over his shoulder towards Alexandre and there was a nervous tension in his stance.

Alexandre's palms began to itch again, some instinct told him to expect trouble and he immediately began looking around for anything suspicious. He quickly noticed that they were in an area with absolutely no citizens and even more patrols of the Greatsword Guards. Again, his escort looked at him but this time, Alexandre saw a look of realization in the armored man's eyes which soon turned to grim determination.

'You are under arrest _monsieur_ du Vallon!' shouted the escort as he swiftly turned about, his great weapon held in a readied stance and now more of the guards were converging upon them. In response, Alexandre immediately drew his own blades and was already in an aggressive stance.

'On what charges!?' he demanded.

'You are hereby charged with the crimes of conspiring with the traitor Gaspar du Vallon and of plotting treason against Duke Waltier Belmont II along with an added charge of drawing a weapon in public against a member of the Ducal Guard!' replied a new voice in a thickly accented Breton and Alexandre quickly glanced at the direction of where the voice came from. Approaching them along with the other Ducal Guards was an absolutely massive armored man wearing an ornate suite of plate armor, his face was concealed behind a fierce helmet wrought in the visage of a snarling lion. 'Now lay down your arms and come quietly or we will cut you down where you stand!'

'This is absurd!' Hissed Alexandre as he tightened his grip on the hilts of his weapons, the knuckles beneath his glove becoming white. 'This is the first time I have even set foot in this realm! Your charges are false!'

'Lay down your arms' repeated the guard officer more coldly, Alexandre could see the murderous look in the bigger man's eyes.

Calculating his chances, Alexandre immediately knew that the odds were against him for there were more than two dozen heavily armed and armored men and even more he could see coming. He had only one option now and without thinking, he took it. Leaping forward to the guard who had escorted him, Alexandre thrust his main gauche forward, before the soldier could swing his great sword, the blade slipped between the mail links protecting the neck and the lower edges of the helmet and into the flesh of the guard's neck.

Blood gushed out from the fatal wound and Alexandre was already on the move and running towards another guard who had only two friends with him. This next member of the Ducal Guard was ready for Alexandre and he swung his weapon in a mighty sweep which was aimed for the neck. Alexandre ducked in time to avoid being decapitated and he countered with a rapier thrust towards the mail armor beneath the guard's left armpit. More blood gushed out onto the pavement and again, Alexandre was sprinting, away from the large group of men, his light doublet gave him the speed needed to escape the enclosing ring of guards.

Having little idea on where he must go, he took a turn towards a nearby alleyway. As he ran, he heard the shouts of men searching for him and soon their were alarm bells being rung in the distance. Lady's Grail! Thought Alexandre while he fled, Just what the hell had Gaspar gotten into?


End file.
